Chapter 7
Sunny
This white blend is being difficult, and I should be paying more attention to it instead of replaying Saturday night in my head for the hundredth time.
I pull a sample from the barrel and hold the glass up to the light, but I'm not seeing wine. I'm seeing Charlie Hayden on my front porch, backlit by the streetlamp, his palms warm on my waist and his mouth doing things that made me forget my own name.
I went to bed Saturday night with my fingertips pressed against my lips and my pulse hammering so hard that the silence in my little house felt deafening. Then I spent the rest of the weekend swinging between giddy anticipation and pure panic.
But since then, he has been infuriatingly, bewilderingly cool.
He's texted me three times. The first was a photo of Kevin attempting to attack Wade's boot, captioned He's making friends.
The second was a sunset shot from the back porch at Twin Oaks, all gold and purple streaked across the hills, with no caption at all.
The third, yesterday evening, was a short video of Gerald standing on top of the water trough while Dolly paddled around below, and Charlie's low laugh in the background as he narrated: Gerald has claimed the high ground and refuses to share.
Each message made me smile. But none of them asked me for a second date. None of them referenced the kiss, or Saturday night, or any of the things he said on that Fredericksburg sidewalk that I have been turning over in my head like stones in a tumbler.
I cap the sample glass and set it down harder than necessary. The man told me I was worth every mile of the drive and then proceeded to send me duck videos. Either Charlie Hayden has more patience than any person I have ever met, or he has decided that one kiss was enough to satisfy his curiosity.
The second option makes my stomach drop in a way I can’t afford to consider.
The production room door swings open, and the scent of coffee reaches me before his voice does.
"Morning, Sunshine."
My grip locks on the sample glass. Every nerve in my body fires at once, and today it is worse because now I know what his mouth tastes like and how his strong hands feel against my waist.
I turn slowly. Charlie strolls toward me with two paper cups balanced in one hand and an apron draped over the other arm. His dark brown hair is slightly ruffled, and that grin is aimed at me with the full force of a man who knows exactly how good he looks.
I take the cup he offers and the first sip burns my tongue, giving me something to focus on besides him.
He ties the apron on and follows me to the tanks, and neither of us mentions Saturday night.
But when I reach past him for a hose clamp and my arm grazes his, I jerk back like I touched a live wire.
The smirk he gives me tells me he notices.
"What are we working on today?" he asks, as if nothing happened.
"Blending trials." I nod toward the row of sample bottles I laid out on the worktable before he arrived. "I'm working on a new white blend, and we need to test different ratios before committing to the final proportions."
His eyebrows lift with genuine interest. "You're blending the wines before they go into the barrel?"
"Before the final aging, yes. The components ferment separately so I can control each one, and then I blend to get the flavor profile I want.
" I pull two clean glasses from the rack and set them between us.
"Blending is where the art meets the science.
The numbers get you close, but your palate makes the final call. "
Charlie settles onto the stool across from me and sets his coffee aside, giving me his full attention.
I've noticed this about him across our sessions together. When I am teaching, his focus narrows to a degree that would be flattering if it were not also deeply unsettling. It’s the same intensity he turned on me across a candlelit table in Fredericksburg, and my body does not seem capable of distinguishing between the two.
I pour the first trial blend and slide it to him. "This is sixty-forty, with the heavier white leading. Tell me what you get."
He swirls, inhales, tastes. His brow furrows in concentration. "The lead wine is heavier here. I'm getting pear, maybe some honey. The second one is in the background, but it's there, that floral note you pointed out during the tasting."
"Good. Now try this one." I pour the second trial, reversing the ratio.
He tastes again, and I watch his expression shift as the difference registers. "This one's brighter. More citrus up front, and the stone fruit is leading. The other wine gives it weight on the finish, but the brighter one is running the show."
"That's exactly right," I say, and the admission comes out quieter than I intended.
He catches it. His focus lifts from the glass to my face, and the corner of his mouth curves. "You sound surprised."
"I'm impressed. There's a difference."
"Is there? Because last time, 'not terrible' was a long way from good, and now I'm getting 'impressed.
' I'd say that's significant progress." He leans forward on his elbows, and the distance between us shrinks over the worktable.
"Just out of curiosity, what does a man have to do to get an actual compliment out of you? "
"Identify the third trial without any help."
"Bring it."
I pour the third blend and slide it to him without telling him the ratio. He takes his time, swirling the glass, inhaling twice, tasting with his eyes closed in a way that makes his lashes fan against his cheekbones. My attention catches there for a beat longer than it should.
"Fifty-fifty," he says, opening his eyes. "Equal parts Viognier and Traminette. The two wines are balanced, neither one dominating. It's rounder than the other two."
My jaw sags to my chest. "That is exactly correct."
"And my compliment?"
"You have a good palate, Charlie Hayden." I hold his look, and the warmth that spreads through me as his face brightens has nothing to do with the coffee. "Better than good. You have instincts that most people never develop."
He stares at me for a long moment, and the air between us turns charged and heavy. Then he leans back on his stool and breaks the tension with a twinkle in his eye. "I have a good teacher."
We spend the next two hours working through the remaining blend trials, and an easy rhythm settles between us.
He asks questions that push past surface-level curiosity, and I find myself explaining concepts I have never bothered to articulate for anyone else, not because he demands it, but because his interest makes me want to share them.
When we take a break at the worktable, Charlie pulls out his phone and swipes to a photo. "The landscaper finished the bridge on Monday." He turns the screen toward me, and I lean in to see a miniature arched bridge spanning the duck pond, its railing painted an absolutely outrageous shade of pink.
I press my lips together, but the giggle escapes anyway. "Please tell me Evie picked that color."
"Down to the exact shade." He swipes to the next photo, and it shows a tiny girl in pink rain boots standing on the bridge with her hands on her hips, supervising a row of ducks beneath her. "She also informed me that Kevin needs a timeout corner because he bit Wadsworth."
"Kevin bit Wadsworth?"
"Kevin bites everyone. Wade calls him Satan's poultry. Gran calls him spirited." Charlie shakes his head, but the affection in his expression is unmistakable. "I call him a liability."
I am laughing before I can stop it, and the sound echoes off the steel tanks. Charlie watches me laugh, his eyes gleaming with delight.
"Come see them," he says.
My laughter trails off. "What?"
"Saturday. Come out to the ranch." His voice is casual, but his focus is steady on mine.
"You said you love ducks. I've got six of them and a brand-new pink bridge that needs admirers.
" He pauses, and the corner of his mouth lifts. "And I believe I owe you a horseback riding lesson. It’s only fair since you’re teaching me about winemaking. "
The rational part of my brain, the part that spent years building walls out of productivity and solitude, is already composing reasons to decline his offer.
Saturday is my day off. I have laundry to do.
I could catch up on production logs. I could clean my house, which is already spotless, or reorganize my closet, which does not need reorganizing.
"I'll pick you up if you want, or you can drive out yourself," he adds, giving me the option the way he always does, letting me choose the terms. "No pressure.
Just ducks, horses, and whatever Gran decides to feed you, because she will absolutely want you to join us for lunch the moment she finds out you're coming. "
"I can drive myself," I answer. "What time?"
"Ten? That way we can get a lesson in before it gets too hot."
"Ten works."
His chest expands. "Wear boots if you've got them. And something you don't mind getting dirty."
"I'm a winemaker, Charlie. Everything I own has a stain on it."
"That's my girl." The words slip out easy and warm, and his eyes widen a fraction as if he did not entirely mean to say them. He covers with a sip of coffee, but I catch the flush climbing his neck. The fact that I can make Charlie Hayden blush makes me feel invincible.
We finish the session at noon, and he leaves through the tasting room with a wave to Tabitha.
I stand still for a full minute after he is gone, my hand resting on the worktable where his elbow was, and I think about the careful way he has handled the past five days.
No pressure or crowding. Just a slow, steady presence through text messages, letting me come to him on my own terms.
Tabitha’s words from a few weeks ago filter through. At some point, you have to let someone past the tasting room.
* * *